


The Other Shoe

by PinkPenguinParade



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Fluff, Fluff and Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-15
Updated: 2019-08-15
Packaged: 2020-09-01 02:14:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20250487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PinkPenguinParade/pseuds/PinkPenguinParade
Summary: "Did you..." Aziraphale took a breath.  "Did you have your sexuality turned on for that?""'Course," Crowley said, nestling into the cushions.Aziraphale's silence got louder.





	1. Part 1

It was a strange feeling, Crowley reflected as they left the Ritz, knowing they didn't need to hide. 

Aziraphale felt it too, he was sure. There was more relaxation in that face than he'd ever seen before--and, just for now, none of the faintly worried air that the angel always had, that he was managing to do the wrong thing despite himself.

The Worst had happened, but then... the Worst hadn't happened. The world still existed; the good parts and the awful parts and all the parts in between. 

The sheer pressing noise of the humanity of it all chattered around them as they wandered back toward the book shop, surrounding them without quite touching them.

Crowley got the door and ushered Aziraphale inside, not bothering to ask for the key. Locks were something that happened to other people, especially this lock. It had known him for more than a century and no longer bothered with even token resistance. 

Aziraphale gave a happy little half-bow and headed in, making a line for the wine stock while Crowley clicked the lock back closed and looked around again--not at the books themselves, but at the way the angel fitted into it. If the locks knew Crowley, the shelves and collections knew Aziraphale. He would swear the spines and woodwork glowed just a bit brighter in the afternoon sun than they had that morning. 

He sauntered toward the back when the angel called out a couple of wine choices. "Whatever you want," he said absently. Aziraphale didn't keep substandard wines in the shop any more than he would sell his books of prophecy. 

And Crowley was suddenly weary, fatigue radiating out from his bones. The past week hadn't included any sleep. Sure, technically he didn't _need_ sleep. He could essentially declare himself rested, and it would be so. But it never felt quite the same as being rested because he'd, well, rested. 

Aziraphale's wine choice was, of course, excellent. Aziraphale's sofa was also excellent. And though he'd sat on it many times, it seemed extraordinary tonight. 

Crowley didn't even notice when wine and company lulled him, and he slid into a boneless sleep. 

****

Aziraphale hadn't been gone long--just to the kitchen, coming back with some biscuits on a plate to find that Crowley seemed to have melted into the couch. 

He set the plate down and peered closer, then smiled fondly and tidied away Crowley's glass and the open bottle of wine. Crowley, he knew, was in the habit of regular and irregular sleep. He'd never quite acquired the habit himself, though. And since he had a bit of time for the first time in days--since the world was still here, since Heaven wasn't hunting them (yet, he reminded himself, in the small nasty corner of his mind where his cynicism lived; Heaven wasn't hunting them _yet_. Heaven was long on memory and, for an organization ostensibly dedicated to grace, desperately short on actual forgiveness)... 

Well, in any case, the world was still here, the bookshop was un-burned, he had a plate of biscuits, and there were three crates of rare tomes in the back that needed a thorough cataloging, forgotten in the last week's scramble.

So he turned the lamp down low and pulled a well-worn quilt over his sleeping... friend, he thought, rolling the word around in his head. It felt good. It felt _right_, and he relished being able to think it without worrying what Heaven would say.

As an afterthought, he reached out for the demon's sunglasses. The back of his fingers brushed Crowley's temple as he pulled them off, and he caught an echo of... pain? Pain, or something like it, anyway.

Aziraphale sat the sunglasses down, eyes closed as he hunted the memory of pain. There was an echo there, just on the edge of familiar, and his hand crept back to Crowley's temple. 

Right... there. Definitely pain, floating in wine and sleep.

Well. Aziraphale had carried out any number of healings during millenia of working on Earth. He knew what to do with pain.

A thousand years ago, he wouldn't have done it, sure that pain must just be the wages of sin. Last month he wouldn't have done it, caught up in worrying if Heaven was watching, wondering if it was technically an evil act to heal a demon. In the morning, with the alcohol out of his system, less giddy with them both having survived and the world with them, he probably wouldn't have done it; he'd have chosen discretion and probably not touched Crowley's face to remove the sunglasses anyway.

It wasn't a thousand years ago, or last month, or tomorrow morning. It was now, and Aziraphale called a little healing grace to his fingers. They started to glow faintly, then stronger as the light pooled into his hand. 

Aziraphale smiled indulgently and allowed the light to spill over onto his sleeping friend.

There was very little reaction at first. Crowley sighed, and sank if possible even farther into the cushions. Aziraphale began to draw his hand back--

Crowley's eyes slammed open. He moved like a striking snake, grabbing Aziraphale's arm. "Don't," he gasped, pupils wide in the dim light. "Stop."

Aziraphale's hand snapped closed as he shut off the trickle of grace. He tried to pull his arm back, but the demon held fast.

"No," he grated, shaking. "Don't STOP."

Aziraphale's fingers, clenched in their fist, were still glowing faintly. "Are you certain?" he asked, although his hand was already relaxing, light spilling off onto his friend. 

Crowley hissed at the touch, not releasing Aziraphale's arm. "Yessssss," he said breathlessly.

The angel hesitated for a moment, unsure--that hiss had looked an awful lot like pain--and then decided that Crowley was 6000 years old and this probably counted as informed consent. He spread his fingers, light sheeting off them, then turned his hand and let his arm be pulled down onto the demon's chest.

Crowley hissed again, head thrown back into the cushions. A shadow fell across his skin, rippling up his neck and into his hair.

Looking closer, Aziraphale realized that they were scales--iridescent black and copper, chasing each other across his friend's skin.

Hmm, he thought. 

In a spirit of scientific enquiry, the angel called up a little more power, as though to heal an injury or infection rather than just taking care of some pain. 

His spirit of scientific enquiry was rewarded with more copper-black scales and a slow arching of Crowley's back, pressed into his hand, almost levitating off the sofa.

"A-ha-hhANGEL!" Crowley gasped. Aziraphale reached out his other hand toward Crowley's face before he realized that that hand, too, was spilling light. 

Crowley's body snapped taut with a high keening, then abruptly collapsed. He lay shuddering for a moment, a sussuration of scales sliding across his face and down under his collar, and stilled, all his breath whuffing out in something like a full-body sigh.

Aziraphale pulled his hands away, fumbling for a moment before he remembered how to turn off the healing. 

Well. 

Whatever he had been expecting, it certainly hadn't been THAT.

***

Angels and demons don't normally dream, any more than they normally sleep. But having a mostly humanish body for 6000 years, well... human bodies have ideas of their own, even if they're only mostly humanish. 

Crowley had, perhaps understandably, been dreaming about the end of the world. How it could have gone, how it almost did. About Hell winning and making everything boring and dark and terrible; about Heaven winning and making everything boring and bright and terrible.

And then it... stopped.

Visions of Beelzebub blanketing his London in Fire and Flies faded, replaced by a serenity he hadn't felt since...

...since...

..._oh_. 

He could feel Aziraphale there (he could always feel Aziraphale, always, except when he couldn't (don't think about when he couldn't, don't think about the book shop covered in flames and in flies. Don't think about what the hellfire could have done)).

Having it shut off felt like taking the sun away. (Like taking his angel away. His. His angel. His.)

There. THERE. Concentrating, building, pulling him into light and pooling somewhere within him, in his stupid fragile humanish body.

It burned. It should have burned him up--should have sleeted him away, torn him asunder. It should have destroyed him.

It shouldn't have felt like the sun on his scales.

It was almost more than his humanish body could handle--Almost. But humanish bodies have ideas of their own, and his.... chose a metaphor. 

As metaphors go, it was a _very_ good one.

***

He lay for a long moment, focused on his humanish body, not wanting to move. Perhaps ever again. 

Feeling Aziraphale watching him. 

Trying to remember how to breathe.

...Aziraphale was watching him rather loudly.

He got his breathing under control. "We should do that again sometime," he said, not opening his eyes, working hard to keep his tone conversational. "Maybe in a week. Oooh, two weeks. A month at the outside."

"Crowley..." said Aziraphale, and his tone made Crowley open his eyes and shift position just enough that he could see the angel where he sat. 

"Nnngh?" he said. It was supposed to be 'yes?' but he seemed to have used up all his conversational. 

"Did you..." Aziraphale took a breath. "Did you have your sexuality turned on for that?"

"'Course," he said, nestling into the cushions.

Aziraphale's silence got louder. 

Crowley took a deep breath and thought himself more awake, although most of his body didn't seem to be getting the memo. "I'm a demon of _temptation_, angel. It's generally on. It's practically my job description." He forced his eyes open. "What, don't you--haven't you tried it out?"

"Once or twice," Aziraphale said slowly. "I think I last turned it on in Rome. It was... fine, I suppose, but there was always so much to _do_."

"You get used to it. Tune it out. Humans do it all the time." He shifted, looking at the angel with temptation in his smile. "You should really try it."

"And how long have you just... left it on?"

"Since about, oh, 830."

"This morning?"

The angel was messing with him, right? He had to be. Crowley smiled. "BC."

Aziraphale blinked, going still. 

Okay, maybe he hadn't been messing with him after all. Time for a new plan. 

"Why do you eat?"

***

Aziraphale blinked again, thinking for a moment. He ate because he ate. Because he liked it, because it helped him understand humans, and gave him a reason to be around them. Because alleviating hunger often came with invitations to share the bounty, and he enjoyed breaking bread with them.

Because, well.... "Because food is one of the great pleasures we have been Given."

Crowley stretched a little, and saw the plate of biscuits. "How do you decide--" he picked up a biscuit and bit into it--"when to eat something? Or what you want to eat?"

"I just... feel like having food, I suppose." For instance, he suddenly felt very much like having a biscuit, but just at the moment it also felt like Temptation. He was torn.

"You have a body. Bodies _want_ things. Sure, you can turn it off, but bodies want food. I can tempt you to lunch, angel, because you _want_ lunch."

"And because there's nothing wrong with lunch," he said automatically, wincing when even to his own ears it came out a little prim.

Crowley took another bite, closing his eyes briefly in blatant enjoyment. "Is that what Gabriel would say?"

He tried very hard, out of habit, to keep his distaste from showing on his face. He wasn't sure why he bothered--Crowley definitely knew how he felt about Gabriel and, indeed, most of Head Office--but some habits are ingrained to the bone. "Gabriel is perhaps a little restrictive."

"Gabriel is a twat and a wanker," Crowley corrected, "And there is nothing wrong with lunch. Food--and drink," he said, waving at Aziraphale's forgotten wine glass--"is indeed one of the great gifts that we have been given. Bodies need fuel, and She built humans to enjoy it."

"Gabriel--" Aziraphale started, still thinking about that crack about 'sullying his body with gross matter'.

"Is a twat and a wanker," Crowley said again. He picked up another biscuit. "And yeah, there are foods that are good for you and foods that are bad for you, but 'food' is a neutral concept, innit?" He waved the biscuit faintly. "You eat it, it makes you feel good, you get energy to keep going." He gestured with the biscuit again, looked at it, and then held it out to Aziraphale. "Want one?"

Aziraphale found himself reaching for it without quite deciding to, and he took a bite of buttery sweetness, crumbly and rich. 

And then he looked at the rest of the biscuit that he didn't mean to take, and then back to Crowley, eyes half lidded and golden, smile distinctly serpentine. "You're _Tempting_ me!"

"I am absolutely Tempting you," Crowley said mildly. "The thing about temptation is that it is actually very difficult to tempt someone to do something they don't WANT to do. It isn't hard to tempt you to a biscuit, because you already wanted a biscuit. It would be far more effort than it's worth to tempt Gabriel to a biscuit, because he's a pretentious stuck-up little prig who thinks he's better than everyone else _because he doesn't eat biscuits_."

Aziraphale wanted to argue with this. It was very annoying when he couldn't pretend that Crowley was just lying because that's what demons do, but there was nothing there he could argue with. He popped the rest of the biscuit into his mouth instead, dusting crumbs off his fingers.

"_Likewise_," Crowley said, while the angel's mouth was still full, "If I wanted to tempt you into turning on your sexuality, I would have to work very hard indeed--even if I was entirely too tired for it, even if it was messing up a really world-class afterglow--because you have decided that it's something you shouldn't be allowed to have." He dropped his head back into the cushions again.

Aziraphale froze briefly during this, recasting the entire conversation in this light and realizing that Crowley had never actually been talking about food. His eyes widened. "My dear, you're trying to _seduce_ me?"

"Yesss," Crowley breathed. "And it is amazingly difficult. You seemed surprised, earlier. The fastest way to understand is to try it."

He almost wanted to--what if he'd never tried an oyster? Or hot chocolate? What if he'd spent his entire time on earth without ever realizing what a joy and blessing food was?

Still, though... "Humans get into a terrible lot of trouble over it."

"Yes, because they do awful things to each other in the name of it, the pursuit of it, and the belief that someone is doing it wrong. But sex itself, and having a sexuality--that's value-neutral, angel. It can be hellish or sublime, but it just _is_."

Oh, very well. He wasn't sure if he was doing it just to shut the demon up or because he was now genuinely quite curious, but either way he picked up his disregarded wine and tipped it back before settling himself in his chair and closing his eyes. 

Looking inward, he tried to remember how to do this--thinking himself sober or rested or even fixing minor damage was second nature by now, he didn't even have to concentrate for the small stuff. But it had been millennia since he had even attempted this, and …

Well, he thought a little later, he just wasn't sure it was working.

The first he realized that anything had changed was when he started to become very aware of his skin. The texture of his shirt. The tiny prickle of one of his shoulder seams. A breath of air on his neck. 

Now that he was Looking, his muscles registered opinions, too. His left hip and thigh was a little tight, and he flexed it reflexively. It shifted his whole body, just a bit, and... well, he never would have noticed if he weren't paying such close attention, but the movement was engaging _more_ muscles, and those more....

He opened his eyes, started to say something to Crowley about how it was interesting but still distracting.

He never got past opening his mouth. 

Crowley was still melted into the couch, watching him with eyes of onyx and liquid gold, the picture of utter contentment. 

Wait, no. Contentment wasn't quite the right word. Not right at all, actually, it was more like... 

Satisfaction. That's what it was. Crowley looked... satisfied. 

Wrung-out. 

Wanton. 

_Ravished._

Aziraphale began to wish he didn't have _quite_ such a large vocabulary to run through, especially when he felt a small strangled squeak leave his throat and he _knew_ he hadn't meant to. 

Crowley's eyebrows went up and a slow smile split his face. "_There_ you go," he breathed.

How could the demon manage to project even more satisfaction, without having actually moved?

And why was that look settling low in his stomach like... like the exact opposite of a toothache? (He had felt toothaches, or at least the echoes of them, generally while healing them--the unignorable throb was similar, but the desire to do anything to make it go away was utterly absent).

After a moment a thought wormed its way into his mind: I did that... to him?

_I_... did _that_... to him. 

I did that... _for_ him.

....

....oh...

..._MY_

He was suddenly torn between launching himself at Crowley and running very fast the other way. It had been a VERY busy few days, and some things take even a celestial intelligence some time to process. 

"Talk to me, angel. Don't rabbit on me."

He didn't want to talk about it. He wanted maybe six months alone to work it through (except right now the idea of six months without Crowley did not bear thinking about, and when had THAT happened? Once upon a time they'd done decades without seeing each other and barely noticed). 

He took a breath. "I thought--I was afraid I was _hurting_ you."

Crowley blinked. Twice. Once with each set of eyelids. "You were not hurting me," he said, his smile crooking upward. "That was the farthest thing from pain."

"Don't make fun of me. I was worried about you!" He looked off into the corner to avoid that mocking smile.

"I'm not--honestly I'm not. Angel. _Aziraphale_." Aziraphale felt his eyes being pulled back to meet Crowley's as the demon sat up just a bit. "It. Didn't. Hurt."

***

"...sex itself, and having a sexuality--that's value-neutral, angel. It can be hellish or sublime, but it just _is_" Crowley was still appreciating Aziraphale's excellent couch, without whose soft cradling cushions he might have been forced to sit up, and his legs were definitely not reporting for duty yet. This was already more effort than he had counted on, but if there was one thing he knew by now, it's when a Temptation was working. 

So he kept schtum while his angel considered for a moment. He didn't say a word when Aziraphale knocked back his wine and settled comfortably in his chair, closing his eyes and breathing slowly. He watched the small twitch in position, and pause, and shift again.

And he saw Aziraphale open his heaven-blue eyes and get caught halfway into a word, just... stopping.

He was excellently positioned to see those eyes widen, and he would not have missed that tiny adorable little squeak for the world.

He couldn't keep himself from smiling, though. He didn't even try that hard. "_There_ you go," he breathed.

Aziraphale's eyes ran over him again, his beautiful angel. Crowley had learned a thing or two about giving his friend time, and even if he hadn't, just now he had absolutely nothing better to do than watch the emotions roll across that dear expressive face. 

Whoop, not that one--whatever dark thought had just gone by, it was not part of the plan. "Talk to me, angel. Don't rabbit on me."

Aziraphale looked at him. "I thought--I was afraid I was _hurting_ you."

...Okay, so that was NOT the direction he was expecting this to take--the angel's distress made some sense, and he wanted it to _stop_. "You were not hurting me," he said, and saw his angel relax just a bit. He felt his lip curl up a bit in memory and because it seemed to soothe the angel, and couldn't help adding, "That was the farthest thing from pain."

Aziraphale looked away unhappily. "Don't make fun of me. I was worried about you!"

"I'm not--honestly I'm not! Angel. _Aziraphale_." He sat up a little, waited until the angel looked back, until he could hold those eyes with his own. "It. Didn't. Hurt."

"Yes. You said." 

"You're not hearing me, angel. It didn't hurt. At all, not a bit. And it should have. It..." This was it, he'd never said this, never admitted it out loud, not to the other demons or Aziraphale or ANYONE, but those eyes were waiting and maybe he could do it this time. "It _always_ hurts. It hurts now. It hurts... and it didn't hurt."

Concern and wonder and empathy chased each other across the angel's face, finally settling in on 'worry'. "What, now?"

"Always," he said. "Now... all right, it's still a little dimmed right now, because WOW, I mean just..." he threw his head back into the cushions again with a happy gurgling noise. "...But yes. All the time."

"You-!" He realizes that Aziraphale has started to reach out to him, automatically, worried about him (because that is what his angel does, he loves and he worries, even for things that are inherently unlovable).

And Crowley gives his head the tiniest shake, because he suddenly needs to finish this and doesn't know if he'll be able to if he doesn't do it right now. "What did you think it would be, to be cut off from heaven?" he went on softly. 

Aziraphale's eyes flashed in alarm and... was that anger? His angel was Angry for him? "My dear, I... I never knew."

"I know. Even if I didn't know before, I know now. Because as soon as you knew, your first instinct was to _heal_ me!" He took a deep breath. "It should have hurt. Angelic healing should have been like holy water. It burned, but it should have destroyed me. And it didn't."

His angel pulled back, recoiling in obvious horror at the risk he'd taken. "Crowley, my dear I'm so sorry, I--"

"Don't be sorry, angel." Crowley cut him off gently. "It's all fine. Because miracles are about _intent_," he went on, and oh, he was savoring this moment. He would take this moment out in the dead of a wet winter, and he would _bask_ in it. "And your intent was good, because--" he smiled "--you loooooove me."

Aziraphale actually harrumphed. "Of course. I love all the Almighty's creations."

Crowley leaned forward, just a little. "No. I mean, yes, you _do_ love everything and it's sometimes very annoying, but no. Not like you love me. I could feel it." He basked for just a moment. "You looooove me!"

"You're... not as subtle as you think, either." Aziraphale said, looking at him fondly.

"Subtle?" He let out a bark of laughter. "Me? I have been flirting with you for fifteen hundred years! I'd finally convinced myself that you just weren't interested, that you loved me as part of all creation but that was where it stopped. It never occurred to me that you just didn't _notice_."

Aziraphale's eyes were wide. "Fifteen..."

"Hundred years, yes. Give or take the odd decade."

"I knew there were a couple of times," the angel said slowly. "But I thought surely you were joking."

"Never for you, angel. Not about that." He stopped, considering. "Well, okay, sometimes I was also joking. But I was never not serious."

"So..." Aziraphale's smile was a bit hesitant and thunderstruck, but still went straight to Crowley's heart. "What do we do now, do you think?"

Crowley took a breath. "You... you can say slow, or you can stay stop. You can say no. But I would _really_ like to take a drive with you."

Aziraphale did not misunderstand this time. "Can we... can we start slowly?"

"Angel, unless you come over here, I won't even _touch_ you. I am not leaving this couch. Possibly ever again. I might have to ask you to take care of my plants."

Aziraphale smiled and handed him a biscuit. "Best to keep your strength up, then."

Crowley looked at the biscuit in his hand, surprised, and took a bite.

"How do we start? I am entirely in your hands."

Crowley focused on the buttery crumbs melting on his tongue in an effort to keep his eyes from crossing. He had occasionally imagined the angel saying those words to him, but hearing it out loud was short-circuiting something in his brain.

He realized he had stopped chewing, and swallowed heavily. "I--" he croaked, and swallowed again. "Just... relax. Close your eyes." 

Aziraphale settled back, closing his eyes. Crowley took a deep breath and tried to steady his _intent_, which was suddenly not nearly so calm as it had been a few moments ago. 

_I am entirely in your hands,_ he heard again, echoing in memory, and he thought briefly about ice water before summoning up the best intent he could and blowing it gently toward his angel.

***

Aziraphale, Principality of Heaven (retired), focused his attention on his mostly humanish body, and breathed. 

With his eyes closed he could feel Crowley, shining darkness shot through with threads of fire and, he was surprised to see, ribbons of his own blue grace still rippling gently.

Crowley pulled up energy, fire and darkness and grace all together, and shaped it--slowly at first, wanting it to be perfect, wanting it to say _everything_\--and blew it gently toward Aziraphale. 

It drifted toward him, stretching, reshaping itself, and then landed on his hand. Wrapped around, gently tracing small designs on his skin, flowing up his arm like a slow caress, soft and warm.

Aziraphale felt his breath catch when it reached his neck, tracing the line of his throat and jaw. "I think--" he said, surprised at how unsteady his voice is--"I think I should like to see your face, my dear."

"Anything you want." Crowley's voice came softly. 

He opened his eyes. Crowley was watching him through half-closed lids, smiling. Now, cloaked in the familiar trappings of matter, the demon was less distracting--if, he admitted to himself as he met those golden eyes, no less arresting.

Crowley's miracle had settled onto his shoulder, stroking gently, comfortingly across his jaw and the side of his neck. He leaned into it and the pressure increased in response, sweeping more firmly across his skin.

Crowley himself took a breath and let his eyes drift closed, making small finger motions as he called up more power. Aziraphale could still feel the gathering intent as he watched those long fingers twitch and curl. 

He was surprised by the snap of golden eyes opening, though, and his breath caught again. How could anyone not realize how _beautiful_ snakes were?

Crowley blew across his fingers again--it gently floated to Aziraphale's face, brushing against his brow in a whisper of touch and then moving to scribe long, slow strokes down his back. 

Aziraphale curled into it, fighting the temptation to close his eyes. He focused on Crowley instead and let his breathing fall into a pattern as the strokes relaxed him and he felt pressure growing low in his stomach.

_(Outside in the street Zayna Kowalczyk was hurrying home past the shop, tired and angry. She broke into a sudden smile when, for no reason she could discern, the headache she'd been fighting all day mysteriously eased.)_

There was so much to concentrate on!--he wanted to pay attention to all of it, and it was getting more and more difficult. 

The power at his neck shifted, moving down to his shoulder and over his collarbone, pressing over his humanish heart, and he gasped.

_(In the building next door baby Shafali, who had been colicky for days, stopped crying and gurgled happily to the immense relief of her entire family. She would sleep through the night for the first time that night.)_

His eyes were unfocusing. He hadn't been this wide open in... he couldn't remember when he'd last been this wide open, actually. His vision narrowed to Crowley's eyes as his attention was pulled to _everywhere_, there was _so much_, it was _too much_\--

"Stop!" he gasped, then almost wailed when it stopped. "No. _No._ Hold... Can you...hold where we were?"

The stroking on his back resumed after a moment, not exactly like before, and then, hesitantly, a warm pressure over his heart. 

The strokes on his back slowed, gentled, and Crowley said, "Come back to me, angel" from somewhere quite nearby.

Aziraphale took a breath, and another. Opened eyes he didn't remember closing to find Crowley kneeling by his chair, one hand rubbing his back, the other a steadying pressure on his chest. As everything swam into focus and he met Crowley's eyes again, the demon stopped stroking his back and reached up to cup his face instead. "You're glowing," he breathed, with a huff of a laugh.

"That was..." he panted. "That was rather a lot. I might have to work my way up, a bit."

***

"I think... I think I should like to see your face." Aziraphale's voice wavered, and Crowley kept himself steady with effort. 

"Anything you want," he said, and was rewarded with luminous blue eyes searching his face. 

He gathered more power and blew it over, just a gentle touch for the angel's back to relax him. This really was easier using bodies, but Aziraphale had chosen the chair rather than the couch so he was starting where he was.

He didn't expect Aziraphale to arch quite so far into the touch, and he _definitely_ wasn't prepared for the tiny gasp. 

How did the angel end up so touch-starved? Surely he could-- No, Crowley realized, his options for touch in Heaven would have been severely limited by Heaven being full of self-important overzealous twats. He could no more fill his soul there than Crowley could with his fellow demons, and as he hadn't any strong bonds with humans, either....

_I'm sorry,_ Crowley thought, knowing it did no good now, but he decided he wouldn't let it happen again, anyway. 

He suddenly ached to have a hand on his friend, let him know he wasn't alone. 

His first miracle obediently followed this stray thought and slid downward, settled over the angel's heart. 

Aziraphale... wavered, just slightly, and the luminous blue of his eyes was distinctly non-metaphorical. Crowley could feel the angelic energy washing over him, through him, filling the room and spilling out into the world--

"Stop!" Aziraphale choked, eyes closed again.

Crowley killed the power instantly, and the small noise Aziraphale made just about split him in half. _Too far too fast What have I done whathaveIdonewhathaveIdone--_

"No. _No._ Hold. Can you... hold where we were?"

He could never gather all that power back quickly, not even on a good day, but oh look, his legs had decided to work after all--he found himself kneeling by the angel's chair and slowly started rubbing circles on his back.

After a moment's hesitation, he laid his other hand over his angel's pounding heart, trying to soothe the broken, panicked breathing.

The glow was receding, pulling back in, and Crowley let his hand slow. "Come back to me, angel."

Aziraphale just breathed for a moment before opening eyes that still shone. Crowley reached up to cup his face. "You're glowing."

"That was--" his breath hitched. "That was rather a lot. I might have to work my way up a bit."

"Bodies," Crowley said. "Very intense things, sometimes, bodies. Especially first times." _Or if you're starving,_ he added silently. "I dealt with it forever ago. Didn't think to warn you."

"What happened with you?"

Crowley had been hoping he wouldn't ask that. "There might have been just a tiny... volcano. Hey," he went on at Aziraphale's look, "I didn't know that area was geologically unstable!"

Aziraphale gave a small tired chuckle, his chest hitching under Crowley's hand, and Crowley started to pull away.

Aziraphale followed, keeping contact, sliding out of the chair onto his knees and into Crowley's lap. 

Crowley froze for a moment before he reset enough to gather his angel in and hold him. He stayed there for a while--long enough that his face had dipped muzzily forward into the angel's hair--when he heard, "Crowley, my dear?"

"Mmmh?"

"I think I should like to try that again sometime."

"Anything you want."

"Also your knees are very sharp. I have seen knees and they're almost universally rounded. How are yours sharp?"

"Bodies," Crowley said, as if it explained everything, and perhaps it did. He lifted his head reluctantly from the pale curls. "There's an exceptionally nice sofa right here if you'd rather."

"Perhaps we ought."

They disentangled themselves with some effort; Aziraphale standing, Crowley slithering sleepily back into the cushions. He patted the space next to him invitingly. "Plenty of room, angel."

Aziraphale folded himself onto the cushions, facing his demon with one leg tucked beneath him. 

He reached out with one hand toward Crowley's face, hesitating partway til Crowley nodded at him. 

The angel's fingertips brushed his temple, then traced down the side of his face to his jaw. 

Crowley began to wonder if snakes could learn to purr. 

Aziraphale's fingers trailed back up, following a looping course by his ear, and Crowley's body went rigid in panic when he realized the angel was tracing his tattoo. He tried to pull away. "Don't--"

Aziraphale's other hand came up to his neck, steadying him, fingers pushing into his hair, thumb gently running along the skin behind his ear. "It's all right," he said, smiling. "It's part of you. It's beautiful."

And then, to Crowley's horror and terror and unabashed delight, his angel leaned forward and gently kissed his tattoo. 

Something in Crowley's brain went _vzzzzt_ and the world went away.

The first thing to come back was Aziraphale's voice telling him to "Breathe, dear." He fought to pull in some air.

Once he'd gotten his traitorous humanish lungs under control Aziraphale shifted, stretching out with him so their sides were touching and his head was on Crowley's shoulder. The angel's warm weight almost made him stop breathing again--his lungs seemed too small for this body, or maybe there just wasn't enough room in his chest for them to work properly. 

Maybe, he thought drowsily as he realized his eyes were closed again, he really needed to finish his nap, too.

"Crowley?" Aziraphale said again.

"Hmmm?"

"...You loooooove me."

"Angel..."

"You do. You loooooove me."

"Shut it."

"Big scary demon and you loooooove me."

"You know," he said conversationally, still not opening his eyes. "Next time I'm going to take you to the hospital."

Aziraphale's head came just off his shoulder. He could feel the angel's quizzical look.

"...and then I'm going to have my wicked way with you in a supply closet. You can heal a bunch of people while I corrupt an angel. Everyone wins."

"Crowley!"

He didn't have much left, it felt like, but more than enough to miracle a biscuit into his hand and give it to the angel (his angel. His, always his.)

"Go to sleep, angel."

~_fin_


	2. Promises Kept

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Why are we sneaking into a hospital?"
> 
> "I told you. We're going to find a supply closet."
> 
> Aziraphale stopped, his hand pulling out of Crowley's. "You were _joking_!"
> 
> "I never lie to you, angel. Not when the truth is so much more satisfying."

### Part the Second: Promises Kept

_"Why are we sneaking into a hospital?"_

_"I told you. We're going to find a supply closet."_

_Aziraphale stopped, his hand pulling out of Crowley's. "You were _joking_!"_

_"I never lie to you, angel. Not when the truth is so much more satisfying."_

***

To his own surprise, Aziraphale had slept. Not terribly long or deeply, but the feeling of being held--being tucked under Crowley's arm like something precious, had been more lulling than wine or scotch. The sound of Crowley's humanish heart and breathing had been soothing. 

He had considered, for a moment, willing himself rested and getting up to do his cataloging.

And then he had looked at his hand, resting on his demon's chest (_My_ demon, he thought, with a possessiveness that would have quite shocked him a few days ago. _Mine!_)

He had watched the gentle rise and fall as Crowley's body breathed.

He had surrendered to the warmth of Crowley's arm around his shoulders.

He was still marveling at the joy of it when the world slipped away.

***

_"But we could just walk in the front door!"_

_"Yeah, we could, but you'd have to explain to me how that would be fun 'cause I'm not seeing it."_

***

Crowley had woken with more energy than he expected. It hadn't taken much tempting at all to get Aziraphale to go for breakfast at the little cafe a couple blocks down. 

He had gotten tea for his angel and coffee for himself, and a selection of pastries 'for the table' (read as: for Aziraphale to enjoy while he pretended to dither and consider).

There may have been a few moments where one or the other of them reached over to brush or otherwise touch hands. 

After a few overt glances from other customers and an encouraging, _entirely_ unsubtle thumbs-up from the barista, Crowley closed his eyes for a moment to see how many people were watching them. 

He wasn't sure whether to be chuffed or appalled when the answer came back as 'all of them'.

Aziraphale was contemplating the last pastry, a glazed lemon-blueberry tart, while his hand lay next to Crowley's, thumb absently tracing a pattern on the demon's skin. 

The barista caught Crowley's eye and gave him another thumbs-up. 

Crowley sighed, and then realized that the light from the window wasn't actually hitting Aziraphale the way he'd thought. His angel was glowing again. Although, he realized looking around, it didn't seem to be the sort of glow mortal eyes would notice, thank hea-- he-- um. Thankfully. He wasn't sure he was up to editing the memories of the entire shop today. 

Besides, everyone seemed to be in a good mood already. The baristas were smiling, the people in line for their Monday morning coffee were relaxed and happy, and...

And Aziraphale was leaking, that's what. 

Gad, even the _espresso machine_ sounded happy! He wasn't even sure whether it was Aziraphale's influence on the world or just on him at this point, but he was beginning to think he might have to go kick a puppy or something to get back to normal.

Oblivious to their audience, Aziraphale broke the tart and popped a chunk into Crowley's mouth before he quite realized what was happening. "You really ought to try this, dear!"

And suddenly tart sugar was melting on his tongue and DAMMITALL why did his angel have to be so adorable?

They were, he reckoned, about 15 seconds from getting a spontaneous round of applause. Five if he gave in to the impulse to use his thumb just _there_ and wipe away the smear of filling on the edge of the angel's lip. 

Crowley stood up abruptly. "Delicious. We should go."

"Nonsense. I haven't finished my tea!" Aziraphale gestured with what was quite clearly an empty teacup. 

"Yes you have," Crowley said, catching his hand and depositing the cup back onto the table before pulling him gently to his feet. "Come on." The demon grinned wickedly (of course). "I've got a plan."

Aziraphale let himself be pulled. "Really? How exciting. What's your plan? Thank you very much!" This last was over his shoulder to the shop staff as they pulled out the door. 

"It's a surprise," Crowley said. "You're going to love it."

***

"Aaand... here!" Crowley pushed open a door in the white hallway and darted inside, pulling Aziraphale with him.

"Really, my dear, the back room of the shop is much more comfortable," the angel said, looking at the utility shelving around them.

"Yes, it is." Crowley pulled the door closed. "On the other hand, I've got a new toy and you can't blame me for wanting to play a little."

"And what new toy is that?"

"You," he said simply, grinning. He covered the distance between them in one long stride and cupped the angel's face in his hand. 

His humanish heart stuttered in his chest when that cheek pressed into his palm, though, and his grin faded. "You are..."

"I am...?" Aziraphale said after a moment, reaching up to cradle Crowley's hand, rubbing catlike into his touch.

"Amazing," Crowley breathed. He took off his sunglasses with his free hand, tucking them into a pocket. "Ethereal."

"Tell me more." Aziraphale looked at him like he was... like he was a chocolate trifle, a first edition, a lost Wilde--and he was almost drunk with it. 

"You're a miracle," he said, and leaned in to taste the angel's lips--just a brush at first, then something deeper when Aziraphale's mouth began to move against his. A hand came up to his neck, creeping up into his hair. Crowley moaned and returned the favor, plunging his fingers into whisper-soft platinum curls that felt exactly as good as he'd always imagined.

He pulled away eventually, with what he refused to call a whine, and bent so their foreheads rested together. "Y--" he started, and his voice broke. He licked his lips and tried again. "You can say slow. You can say stop, and you can say no." His breath was shaky, shuddering. "But... _my hands are hungry for you._"

Aziraphale looked at him, eyes wide and pupils blown. All the times he had dreamed of this, in the dark of night, and it always broke in the morning. It always ended here. He wanted to frame this moment forever, just this, this... love, this hunger, all for him, for just a moment before it all inevitably came crashing down. "You can say no," he said again.

He was braced, he thought, for the word 'stop'. He was prepared for 'slow down.'

He was entirely unequal to the task of catching a ballistic angel as Aziraphale lunged for his mouth, knocking both of them off-balance and ending with Crowley pinned against the wall. His head bounced off the concrete and he didn't even care, he just grabbed his angel with both hands and held on. 

The angel tasted like sunshine and rain and lemon-blueberry tart, like water in the desert after aeons of parched screaming. The transition from 'I want' to 'I have' was dizzying, his head spinning. 

Wherever his humanish blood was going, it had completely deserted his brain.

Aziraphale had been at a faint glow for most of the morning. Now he was blinding, white-blue radiance pouring out of him as he tried to devour Crowley's mouth. Crowley closed his eyes, devouring right back.

He could still see it, pushing out in an expanding globe.

Washing over him. 

Flooding through him. 

Last night had been a trickle, compared to this. His hands found the angel's hips and held tight, just trying not to be carried away, burst to pieces by the grace and sheer love that was trying to take him apart, unmaking him and cradling him like something precious, _building_....

His hands tightened on Aziraphale's hips, crushing, bruising. Afraid to try moving them, in case he lost his grip and just blew away. 

Aziraphale growled into his mouth, pressing closer, tangling their legs together, hips meshing.

And Crowley came apart with a wordless cry, holding on for dear life in an ocean of endless blue as he felt a pulse of energy leave him in turn.

The fluorescent light overhead popped in a shower of sparks.

Aziraphale's breath caught. He lost the kiss with a broken sob, burying his face in Crowley's neck as the demon coalesced back into his body.

His angel was shaking, trying to breathe with spasming lungs, holding him up with the sheer pressure of his embrace. 

Crowley pried his fingers from their perch and put his arms around Aziraphale, holding him tightly as the light pouring off him stuttered and slowed. "I've got you," he whispered. "I've got you."

The door opened suddenly and there was a humourless-looking nurse on the other side of it, glaring into the closet. "_Interns_," she spat in apparent disgust, grabbed a stack of blankets from the shelf, and closed the door.

Shock held them silent for one second.

Two.

And then Crowley collapsed with a whoop of laughter, Aziraphale tumbling down with and on top of him. 

They lay tangled for an eternity (or maybe just a few minutes) as Crowley shook with laughter and it spread to his angel, lying on the floor of a darkened closet.

"That was either the best or the worst anti-climax ever," Crowley said finally, still panting a little.

"That was... that was _terrifying,"_ said Aziraphale, reaching for him with shaking hands. "I want to do it again."

"I promise, angel." He laughed again, a little huff that almost sounded like happiness. "As much as you want. We haven't even gotten to sex yet. We might have to sell tickets. I don't usually fear for my life while making out with someone, but you, angel...." He twisted enough to plant a kiss into that soft hair, lingering to feel it against his lips. "You are a revelation."

Aziraphale shivered in his arms, brought up their clasped hands and delivered a small kiss to each knuckle. 

"It would be much easier and more private if we had a bed, though," the angel says, after a moment. 

"Yes, but people tend to notice if you stick a bed in the hall under the paediatrics ward."

"You old softie," Aziraphale said. 

Crowley grimaced out of habit, then brightened. "Speaking of..." he sat up, pulling away a little until he was able to look at his angel, really Look at him, up and down and sideways. "Hmm. Not a speck."

"Not a speck of what?" Aziraphale said, brows pulling together in confusion.

"No corruption. Corrupting you is clearly going to be more work than I thought." He grinned. "Well, I have a few more ideas. Next time I guess I'll just have to try harder."

**Author's Note:**

> For the purposes of this fic, my general take is that, when they turn on their sexuality, Aziraphale is extremely Demi and Crowley is comfortably Pan. Other fics might take on other arrangements.
> 
> Also, I love this fandom and I have been marinating in it for weeks. This is the first fic I've written in 15 years, so I live and die on feedback. :)
> 
> Thanks and all love to LastSaskatchewanPirate for being, as always, my general instigator, abettor for life, and all around fabulous influence! (also making sure I didn't chicken out on posting this, helping me keep my tenses straight, and talking me through my very very rusty HTML. All mistakes are mine, not theirs.)


End file.
